There’s no such thing as “the straw that broke the camel’s back”.
We’ve got to quit kidding ourselves about that.
We’ve all seen straw.
We all know what a camel looks like.
One straw is gonna cause that damned ugly loogie-hockin’ animal’s knees to buckle?
I’ve done the research, and Wikipedia says a camel “weighs an average of 650 kg (1,430 lb) and can carry around 400 to 450 kg (880 to 990 lb)”.
The site also reports “Camels mate by having both male and female sitting on the ground, with the male mounting from behind. The male usually ejaculates three or four times within a single mating session“, quoting as its source pages 1, 3, 20–21, 65, 67–68 of The Camel (Camelus Dromedarius): A Bibliographical Review, courtesy of the International Livestock Centre for Africa.
That’s a hell of a lot more than I really need to know about any animal, but I merely offer it as proof that Wikipedia seems to have really, like seriously “really” looked into things, so I’ll trust them about the 990 pound pack capacity ’cause if they’re right about that, then it also stands to reason that in my youth (needed a qualifier there) I possessed the ejaculatory capacity of three or four of your average camels.
Would have made up for not being hung like a horse, huh?
Off the subject….
But have you ever seen a straw that weighs 990 pounds?
You won’t find one listed in Google or shown in Bing or listed in Ripley’s or Guinness. I can assuredly guaran-damn-fuckin’-tee you that.
So if that one straw finished off the job, you’re honestly going to have to give at least some of the credit to the dozen or so bales sitting between that one given straw and that damned camel.
In a related matter, as many times years upon years ago as I passed out somewhere in the back of a bar, in the front of a bar, outside a bar or in one of the bedrooms above the bar, never did I open any conversation the following morning with an equally stupid phrase, “That last shot of Jack fuckin’ did me in, dude.”
Again, one must give a certain amount of credit to the three pitchers of Bud, six shots of Platte Valley Corn Whiskey, one initial shot of Jack Daniels and an additional pitcher of beer to wash all the shots down, all within the four to five hours prior to “that last shot of Jack”.
One of the most important things a person can ever learn is when enough is enough:
it could the size of box you’re trying to load into a Dodge pick-up all by yourself;
it could be a bar-hopping night on the town;
it could be a job;
it could be a relationship;
it could be a friendship;
it could be a marriage.
You let too much pile up on you, you’re going to get buried beneath it all.
You put yourself through more than you can handle, you could finish it all off by ripping every single muscle in your back to shreds or puking up your ankles. You could find yourself appealing Unemployment’s decision not to give you a damned red cent. You could say a cold, eternally final “don’t let the door hit you in the ass” to the best friend you’ve ever had, or a lover, or the soul mate you looked to spend your life with.
Maybe even to the children you had together.
I’ve heard it all at one time or another:
“Shit, man, if the weight in the box hadn’t shifted on me, I wouldn’t be in traction!”
(Well, if you had gone across the street and asked your neighbor to help, you shit-for-brains macho wuss….)
“We had a hellaciously good time that night. GOOD time. Can’t remember a single thing.”
(Must have been those damn bloody Liverpudlian football hooligans who stormed the place and made you do all those Stout bongs….)
“That money-grubbin’ son-of-a-bitch is fighting me on Unemployment after I slaved for his lazy ass for nine years, maaaaaan!”
(Well, when he said he was cutting back your hours, if you hadn’t stuck your fingers down the back of your throat and launched your lunchtime taco truck burrito all over his monthly P&L’s he might have reconsidered.)
Or “So I leave the seat up? So what? She throws all my stuff out on the lawn?”
(Might have been exactly when she saw the lipstick and teeth marks on your dumb, Nimrod ass standing in front of the toilet for the third morning in a row, homeboy!!!!!!!)
And then there’s the Mount Doom of all of them –
“After seven years and three kids he left me ’cause I had lunch with my high school boyfriend?”
(Well, it was more like taking extra time off from work for three-hour lunches … fourteen times in the past two months … and those extra two Saturdays in that cozy little corner booth at that steakhouse up on 88 on the way to Tahoe … at 4,500 feet … next to the “Cum On In” … while he was coaching your eldest son’s soccer game at that statewide three-day tournament over in Los Banos you said you couldn’t attend ’cause you had to put in some extra hours over the weekend?)
We do it to ourselves and then have to ask, like, everybody :
“What I do? What the fu,,,? What I do?”
And you really, really wanna go all Judge Judy on their ass. All Judge Judy AND Pope Francis on their ass at the same time.
All you need to hear is one syllable out of their dead-from-the-neck-up pie hole and you’ve made up your mind you’re sending them straight to hell. And you’re not quite sure whether it’s because of what they did or because they just don’t have a snail snot’s worth of an idea of why what they did is
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